


a bitter draught

by newtonartemis



Category: La Reina del Sur (TV), La Reina del Sur 2
Genre: F/M, Missing Scene, Sharing a Bed, and his wife is ok with it somehow? but nevermind that, but i also respect that oleg will be eternally annoyed with her whole existence, cuz i cant write shit about this show without her, ghosts (as usual), nightmares (still), old timey Russian palaces, planning treason, tbh it's fair, tw for the rude attitude oleg has when he remembers how patricia died
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-06
Updated: 2019-05-06
Packaged: 2020-02-27 09:48:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,732
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18736603
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/newtonartemis/pseuds/newtonartemis
Summary: An old friend reappears in Oleg's life and he has to decide what to do about it.“Hatred is blind; rage carries you away; and he who pours out vengeance runs the risk of tasting a bitter draught.”― Alexandre Dumas, The Count of Monte Cristo





	a bitter draught

**Author's Note:**

> In episode 9 Teresa wakes up from sleeping in Oleg's house in a SUSPICIOUSLY good mood. I don't think they boned yet but I think there was definite bed-sharing and perhaps some pining/emotionally tortured cuddling. Thanks 2 tumblr user tesamendoza for the idea and reminding me what the hell Oleg's kid was called. someplacelikebolivia did beta this one so there are probably fewer typos than last time. Hovertext translations available for Spanish dialogue, and any grammatical issues with the Spanish are because Oleg is an L2 Spanish speaker. For all the English dialogue just use your imagination and pretend it's Russian.

The Yasikov palace had been in his family for generations. It was designed for galas, balls, gatherings; scores of visitors could be hosted for weeks on end. There was no shortage of space, and despite his solitude he did as all Yasikovs had done since time immemorial: keep the floors polished and gleaming, rooms dusted and silver sparkling, prepared at any moment for a visit from the head of state. That eventuality was of course increasingly unlikely, given his current relationship with the president. But still. Tradition mattered. And although Oleg did not seek out company, now that Yulia was gone, he did not want his reputation as a host besmirched. It was a simple fact of his responsibility as the head of the family to keep the residence prepared, at all times, for guests.

He was not, however, prepared for a ghost.

When he first caught sight of her—black hair and dark clothes standing out like a shock against the white marble of the building’s façade—her irreality seemed obvious. He looked around at his bodyguards, trailing a few paces behind him after his afternoon run, But they were idle. No gaze fixed on this apparition, guns stayed safely in their holsters. Oleg considered, for a moment, that it was age or loneliness sneaking up on him, making him see things. And then her name escaped his lips, and she turned, and she was in his arms, solid, corporeal. But he still couldn’t quite swallow the reality of her. He tried to reconcile the woman walking beside him, talking in frantic, nervous bursts with the image of the woman he’d held in his head these last 10 years. They were similar, true, but in an unsettling way, as if one of the statues in his foyer had suddenly come to life.

Perhaps the surety that she was not entirely of this world was what made him lead her past the halls and halls of perfectly made-up guest bedrooms, and into his own.

His breath stilled as he watched her cross the threshold of his room. Oleg had grown used to suffocating quiet in the months since Yulia and Fyodor had left. It was wretched at first, to catch the barest hint of his wife’s scent, but roll over to find only a cold, empty space. Slowly, though, his tears dried up. The emptiness became a dull ache. Manageable. And it was meant to be temporary, after all. He had borne worse pain in his life.

But now she—she who had forced him to swear that he’d let her die back in Marbella; she who had forced him to swear he’d never go looking for her and promised that she’d do the same—was standing in his room. Or perhaps it was her ghost. Either way, emptiness that he had grown so used to burned up, curled in on itself, strained against Oleg’s ribcage.

He stood locked in place as she sighed, sat down on the bed. He noticed the mattress shift beneath her weight—an unsettling reminder of her reality. And then he listened as she talked the way ghosts do, listing the names of those dead or left behind like a prayer.

“Llevas mucho tiempo sin dormir,” he told her. “Necesitas aclarar tu mente durmiendo.” A stupid thing to say—did ghosts even sleep? He reached out to touch her again, gripping her shoulder. Could ghosts feel like this, so solid and soft?

He knelt down in front of her. “Mientras descansas pensaré en cómo ayudarte.” She bent her head forward at the gentlest pressure from his hand, and he placed his lips on her forehead. It was intended as a gesture of reassurance for her, tearful and broken as she seemed, but on kissing her forehead Oleg began to feel something else, too. Something he remembered from years ago. It was a burning in his gut, the burning of cheap vodka going down too fast mixed with a bittersweet longing for something that was never his. The last time he had held her like this.

With the memory of the last time bright in his mind, he pulled her towards him again, this time pressing lips to lips. He felt her body tense in surprise, and then relax, leaning into him sweetly and with relief. 

_Oh_ , he realized suddenly. _Not a ghost_.

It was a challenge to meet her eyes again, so he pulled her into a quick hug. He wondered how he could have ever doubted that it was truly _her_. “Descansa,” he commanded, moving quickly out of the room and shutting the door behind him.

 

* * *

 

 

The late summer sun had finally set, and the halls of the residence echoed with Oleg’s steps as he paced, incessantly. Daria asked him twice if he’d sit down for dinner. He refused both offers. At some point he thought of Yulia. Andrei brought out a burner phone, but Oleg hesitated before dialing her number. Beside the risk of surveillance, he knew that calling the private line he’d sent her with would frighten her. _If this phone rings, my darling, it won’t be good. If it rings, pick it up, but prepare yourself for the worst_. Brave woman, he heard the line connect after the first ring. Clever woman, she stayed silent at first, betraying nothing to whoever might be on the other end of the call.

“Yulia. It’s me.”

He heard a little gasp. “Oleg. I’m so glad it’s you. What’s happening?”

“Nothing yet. But soon. The Mexican woman, Tesa Mendoza—she came to see me today.”

“Tesa? But I thought she…”

“They’ve kidnapped her child.”

“I see.” A beat of silence. “Then you must help her.”

“You understand, my darling, what will happen if I do?”

“I understand, Oleg.” Her voice was soft, tired perhaps, but resolute. “Take care of her.”

They stayed on the phone for a few moments, listening to the sound of each other’s breath. Goodbyes brought bad luck in this business, so they never said them.

He heard a click, and the silence of the dead line.

Yulia’s understanding was as good as a decision. He had no earthly idea how, in his current state, he could offer Tesa any useful sort of help. But she was here, not a ghost, exquisitely real, desperate for his help, and he would not send her off empty handed.

He passed the burner phone off to Alexei with instructions to destroy it, and he continued pacing the halls. Without thinking, his feet led him up to the corridor of his bedroom. But even before he realized where he had ended up, he heard her voice—a shout.

He began to run, desperately— _hadn’t she mentioned she felt like she was being followed? But they couldn’t have made it into the house, his security was too good_ —and, tearing the door open, half-expecting his heart to drop into his stomach, saw her. Alone, on the bed, but twisted up in the sheets, face scrunched up in agony and wet with tears.

“Sofía, Sofía, Sofía,” she cried.

Oleg slipped off his shoes and climbed into the bed.

“Tesa,” he whispered, wiping the tears from her face. “Shh, Tesa. Es solamente una pesadilla.”

With a whimper, her eyes fluttered open, gaze darting around the room before it landed on Oleg’s face.

“Ay Oleg,” she sobbed, grabbing a fistful of his shirt and burying her face in his chest. “Lo siento.”

He turned his body to scoop his arm under her body and pull her in close. She responded by curling her body against him, crying more openly and bitterly than Oleg had ever seen her do. Rage bubbled inside him as he twisted his fingers through her hair and kissed her head roughly.

“Fue una pesadilla, Tesa,”  he murmured. “Respira. Calmate.”

She responded hoarse and bitter. “Ojalá que fuera una pesadilla, Oleg. Esto es la puta vida que me tocó vivir. Todo lo que amo lo pierdo. Y he seguido a pesar de todo eso. Pero si pierdo a Sofīa…” Her voice cracked. “Te juro que no podré seguir.”

What could he say to that? Touching her chin, he turned her face up towards his.

“Tesa. Te juro que la vamos a encontrar.”

She smiled wearily. He could tell she hardly believed him, but there was no sense in arguing the point now.

“Intenta descansar,” Oleg said, shifting his body as he made to get off the bed.

“Oleg,” Teresa said, pressing her palm into his chest. “Quedate conmigo, por favor. No quiero estar sola.”

His heart grew sore looking at her eyes, bright with tears. How could he say no?

“Vale, mexicana,” he said, kissing her hair once more.

Oleg closed his eyes, but didn’t sleep. They laid together in silence, his arm wrapped under her, her leg curled over and around his, her head against his chest. He listened to Tesa’s breathing slow, even out, and felt her body go slack against his she passed into sleep again.

Hours passed. His arm went numb under the weight of her body, but he made no effort to move. It was a necessary anchor to reality, to the very real presence of Tesa in his life again.

In his mind he turned over what she had said, something he had heard her say many times before. _Todo lo que amo lo pierdo_. But it was more than just _loss_ , he knew. Everyone she had given her heart to fully had died. Her men, her friend from Melilla. _Patricia_ , he thought with a silent groan.

For her to come all this way, risk every boundary they had constructed for their mutual safety, and ask this of him—what was that if not a violent, brutal, wrenching open of her heart to him?

Early morning summer sun began to creep through the windows. She was still sleeping soundly, so he delicately rolled her body away from him and stood to properly pull down the blackout shades. She needed as much rest as she could get.

Watching her stretch sleepily and nuzzle back into the pillow, he considered the question that remained. Was he willing to risk the existential threat of being loved by Tesa Mendoza?

He slipped out of the room as quietly as possible, and headed downstairs to find his men.

“Alexei,” he ordered, “set up a meeting with the President.”


End file.
